“You’re right, you’re right; we must send for Bauer at once.”
“No, not so fast; we must have the stamps first, with your head on them, and then the Hollanders can see whom they have to deal with.”
“You’re right again, tailor,” said Drikus I., flattered not a little by these words.
“Besides that, I haven’t finished the ministers’ suits yet, and we can do nothing without them; everything has got to be respectable.”
“Of course.”
During the next few days an unheard-of political commotion prevailed in the usually calm atmosphere of Altenet.
Every evening, when work was over, Bauer’s rifles assembled in the Minister of Finance’s public-house, in order to exchange ideas as to the coming war with Holland.
Guesses were given as to where the first battle would be fought, and calculations were made as to how soon they would be before the gates of Amsterdam, and how many thousand millions they would make the Dutch pay as war indemnity.
Bloemstein, meanwhile, wrote innumerable letters to all the powers of Europe, to give them notice of his accession. All of them were enclosed in large square envelopes, and laid out in a long row on the table.
“And when once I’ve stuck on the stamps, with my head on them, why, then, I shall be no end of a fellow, Marieke,” he repeatedly remarked to his daughter.